The Girl He Loves

by Carmen, Roya

  Grant glances up from his papers. His smile is playful. “How are you?”

  I wonder if he greets every woman who steps into the store like this. I’m sure he does — it must be part of the whole sales strategy. His smile is infectious. I’ve not uttered a single word to him, yet I can tell he’s a charmer. I see what Renee sees in him. But he’s no match for Joel in my opinion. The one thing he has that Joel doesn’t is the element of taboo. He’s not part of the day-to-day monotony; school lunches, grocery shopping, laundry, all that comes with child rearing. There’s nothing sexy about that. As co-parents, we cannot give all our energy to our spouses — they must settle for a fraction of our attention. And a lover will give you their undivided attention and adoration. When you’re with them, there are no bills, no garbage pickups, and no disputes over child-rearing. It’s all fun and games. How is Joel meant to compete with that? And there’s the thrill of doing something naughty and secretive, the excitement of possibly getting caught. Some women get wet for that shit.

  “Can I help you?” he asks. I glance down and peruse his clothes — the man is stylish; short-sleeved button shirt and pressed pants.

  “Yes, you can actually. I’m looking for Renee. Is she around?”

  He smiles. “She sure is. She’s downstairs taking some photos for our social media.” He reaches for his phone. “I’ll shoot her a text.”

  “Thank you.” I turn from him — I have no desire to engage in small talk with this Casanova. I run my fingers over the rack of short sleeved tops. A few catch my eye but I’m not here to shop today. As soon as I hear the click of Renee’s heels, I turn to see her expression, wide eyed, brows a straight line — she’s not particularly happy to see me.

  “Hi, Renee,” I offer cheerfully. “How are you today?”

  Her smile is forced. “I’m fine. And you?”

  I get right to it. “I thought we could talk. Is there somewhere private here?”

  She arches her perfectly shaped brow, intrigued. “Sure, follow me.”

  I trail her down the stairs to the bottom level. There are racks and boxes of clothing, a small photography studio set up, an office area, and a loveseat in the corner.

  She turns her head to the pretty floral dress and white sandals set up on the floor. There is a bouquet of fake lilies artfully positioned. “I was just in the middle of shooting some stuff for social media,” she tells me. “It really helps with the sales.”

  “Yes, I’ve seen your Instagram. It’s awesome.”

  She smiles as she motions me to the loveseat, a comfy looking contemporary sofa for two. A vision of her and Grant sprawled across it, naked, flashes before my eyes. He’s entering her from behind, and her long blonde hair falls over the arm of the sofa. I don’t know why such images creep up in my head sometimes — they both disturb and arouse me.

  I press the folds of my skirt down — I’m dressed up for the occasion.

  “So what did you want to talk to me about, Mischa?” she asks, clearly very curious.

  “It’s about Ava.”

  She nods quietly, as if she expected this conversation — it was just a matter of time.

  “I know about Ava. I know she’s Brian’s.”

  She nods again — no words.

  “I’m surprisingly okay with it,” I tell her. “I wasn’t at first, but I’ve come to terms with it these past few weeks. It was a long time ago. It was a one-night stand.” I don’t say that Brian never loved her because that just seems cruel, and I certainly don’t want to antagonize her.

  “Yes, and I’ve never asked anything of Brian.”

  “I know.”

  She brushes a hand through her long locks. “Did you just come here to tell me you knew?”

  “No… there’s something else.” I don’t quite know how to broach the subject — it’s very delicate.

  Her words are cold and measured when she asks, “What else is there to discuss?”

  “I have reasons to believe that Ava might know too.”

  Her gaze fixes mine for a beat, so full of emotion. I’ve caught her off guard. “What makes you believe that?”

  “She told me to tell you that she knows all about your secrets,” I say. “And she also said that it would be nice if you told her the truth, if she knew where the hell she came from, or who she was or something along those lines.”

  She sits up straighter, suddenly larger than life. “When were you even talking with her?!” she scoffs. “You shouldn’t be anywhere near my daughter.”

  I shrink in the light of her accusations. “Just today.”

  “Seriously, what are you doing talking to my daughter?!” she snaps. “Stop stalking my family. You have no fucking business being anywhere near Joel or Ava. Why don’t you focus on your own family and leave mine alone.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say softly. “I was just trying to help.”

  “I know all about your helping,” she goes on. “I know about how you told Joel about Ava’s cutting because you were stalking her on Facebook, you fucking psycho. I made her change her privacy settings.”

  I’m livid now. She’s woken the tiger, or poked the bear, as they say. I have a short temper and it’s rarely seen but when it is, oh boy, it’s powerful. It acts fast, doesn’t give me the chance to take a deep breath, to think logically, to be wise with my words. It releases my emotions for the world to see, raw, unfiltered and naked. “Well, it’s good that I’m a fucking psycho and was stalking your daughter because it’s not like you give a shit, you selfish narcissistic bitch. You were too busy screwing Mr. Silver Fox upstairs to notice that your own daughter was hurting and cutting.”

  She springs up like a jack-in-the-box, the scary creepy kind. “Get the fuck out!!”

  My heart is pounding, in full flight mode. I have a sudden vision of my dead bloody body, rolled up in the oriental carpet under my feet, carried out of the store by Renee and Grant, and tucked into a large black SUV. I don’t waste a second getting out of there. She nips at my heels as I scurry up the stairs as fast as I can before she kills me.

  Just as I’m about to step out the door, I turn to look at her and Grant one last time.

  “I never want to see you here again,” she calls out. “And if you go anywhere near my husband and my family, I’ll call the cops and get a restraining order, you fucking psycho.”

  “Suit yourself, bitch,” I say just before stepping out.

  I finally breathe when I’m outside.

  Well, that didn’t go quite as planned.

  It might have not have gone as planned but I achieved what I wanted. Our little talk, as unpleasant as it was, will probably spark a conversation between her and her daughter. That family needs to talk, to get everything out in the open, and if it takes a psycho meddler like me to make that happen, so be it.

  I just want Ava and Joel to be happy.

  * * *

  I’m cleaning up after dinner. The boys love my roast beef but it’s such a huge job to tidy up after; the saucepans for the gravy and potatoes, the roasting pan, the greasy muffin tin for the Yorkshire, and the usual dishes — it’s a big job. Brian often helps out cleaning the kitchen but he has exams to mark — June is crazy busy for him.

  I’m thankful for the distraction when my phone pings — I recognize this particular sound as my Messenger app. I wonder who it could be. I know it’s wrong but a small part of me always hopes it’s Joel. I’m shocked when I see a message from Ava. I thought I’d never hear from her again, and here she is.

  Hello, Mischa. I just sent you a friend request. Sorry, I was rude today.

  I flick the kitchen towel over my arm, and accept her friend request. I reply to her message right away, my fingers feverishly tapping away.

  No worries. I understand. How did you find me?

  To my delight, she replies instantly.

  You’re a friend of my dad’s. I saw your profile pic in my suggested friends list.

  Well, it’s nice to chat with you again, I reply.
>
  We chit-chat for a while. She tells me all about the vet tech program she’s interested in. We both adore cats, as it turns out. I tell her all about my messy kitchen, about the dirty dishes on the counter waiting for me. She asks about my husband and boys. I tell her the basics without revealing too much. She tells me about her little sister. They seem to have a good relationship. She talks about her dad. They clearly adore each other. She doesn’t say much about her mom. She and I click so fast, it’s a little unsettling.

  My mother is cheating on my dad.

  The words shock me. We’d just been chatting about her mom’s store, and here they are, tucked in a word bubble, smack in the middle of my phone screen.

  What makes you think that? I ask.

  I saw text conversations on her phone, she writes.

  The text bubbles dance, and I’m brimming with curiosity Hurry, hurry. I want to know more. She’s writing me a small novel, and I can’t wait to read it.

  She doesn’t realize that I know her phone password. I sneak a peek all the time. She and this Grant guy really have the hots for each other. They are filthy too. You should see stuff he writes to her, like he wants to eat out her ass and stick his cock in her ass, and lick her ass. He really loves my mom’s ass. And she loves every word. I can tell… the way she replies to his dirty words. I never thought she was like that.

  My jaw is on the floor. I can’t believe what I’m reading. Children should never see that kind of thing. I know Ava is eighteen now, but still.

  How long have you been reading your mother’s texts?

  —

  About a year. Are you gonna tell? I should have never told you.

  —

  No, I promise I won’t tell, I’m quick to type.

  What is said between you and I is private. We’re friends now.

  I’m aware that I sound like a pedophile grooming his next victim. I’m not sure if Ava and I should be chatting like this, but the poor girl clearly needs someone to talk to.

  I understand why she’s confiding in me. I’m a stranger. I’m neutral. I won’t judge her like her parents or a friend might. She can clearly see that I have her best interest at heart. She knows I can relate to her since I cut too when I was young. Not everyone knows what it’s like to be a tortured teenager, but we both certainly do.

  That’s not the worst part, she writes. She’s been keeping secrets all my life.

  Really? I reply.

  I’ve been reading her diary too. She keeps her diaries locked in a briefcase in her closet. She doesn’t know I know where she keeps the key.

  I shake my head. Renee is so fucking stupid. Children are much more resourceful and smart than we usually give them credit for. If I were having an affair, I would certainly not be keeping evidence of it anywhere in my house. It’s almost as if the tramp wants to get caught.

  Apparently my dad is not my biological dad. I don’t know who my real dad is. I don’t know who I am… where I come from.

  My heart sinks. I’m lightheaded. My fingers tremble as I type my reply.

  OMG. How long have you known?

  —

  About six months. I’ve been messed up ever since.

  Poor, poor girl. She needs to know who her father is. She needs to meet Brian.

  Why don’t you talk to her about it? I ask.

  I’m afraid to. I’m afraid of the truth. What if my biological dad is a murderer, a rapist? What if she gets mad at me for reading her diaries? And worst of all, what if my dad finds out? He doesn’t know I’m not his.

  No wonder the poor girl is cutting. This is way too much for a young girl to handle. I want to help her so badly, but I’m not sure how to.

  I’m just about to respond when Brian bursts into the kitchen.

  “What the fuck, Mischa?”

  Oh shit. I’m in trouble again.

  36

  He closes the distance between us and presses me against the counter. “I just had a long conversation with Renee,” he tells me. “Apparently you’re stalking Ava now… and Renee.”

  “I can explain—”

  “Explain what?” he asks. “That you’re off your meds again.”

  Asshole.

  “Actually, I’ve upped my meds,” I deadpan. “You know… when you suddenly find out that your husband has been hiding a secret child from you for years, you kind of need to.”

  He stares at the floor. “It’s complicated… you know that.”

  Yes, this whole Ava thing is very complicated. “I need to say goodbye to this person,” I tell him as I type my reply quickly.

  So sorry, Ava but I gotta go. I’ll send you a message very soon… I promise.

  I set my phone down on the counter and look up at my husband — he looks about ten years older than his thirty-nine years. I suppose keeping a secret for years will do that to a person.

  “I know it was a lot to take in, Mischa—”

  “A lot to take in?” I scoff. “I discovered that you not only cheated on me with a goddess, but that you’ve fathered her child,” I add in very hushed tones, “and that you’ve hidden a secret daughter, a whole other side of your life that you didn’t share with me because you thought I was too crazy to handle it.”

  “Well, was I not right?” He smirks. “Look at the way you’re behaving, going around town, stalking everyone.”

  I throw the dish towel at him. “How dare you. I’m stalking them because I want answers. I want to know what’s happened to us, to our family. I want to understand why you did this, Brian.”

  “You always have to stick your nose where it doesn’t belong, Mischa,” he tells me and there’s so much anger and repulsion in his eyes. I can’t stand to have him look at me that way. I don’t deserve to be treated like this.

  I swing my arm out, not at him but at the closest thing I can find, a box of milk sitting on the counter. It crashes to the floor and milk goes flying everywhere. I grab my phone and storm off. “You clean the fucking kitchen.”

  I run to our bedroom in tears. Trevor has come out of his room where he spends most of his life these days. “What’s going on?”

  I’m crying and certainly not the person to answer him — I don’t even know what’s going on myself. Thankfully, Tristan is out with a friend again. “Go back to your room, Trevor. We’ll talk soon… I promise.”

  I slam the bedroom door closed and crash on the bed. I bury my face in my bed cushions, the pretty decorative ones, but as soon as the silk touches my skin, I lift my head — I don’t want to smear mascara all over them. I dig out my pillow and press my face into it. I let out guttural cries, hoping Trevor can’t hear me.

  How has my life come to this? I don’t know my husband anymore. And I’ve lost my way. I was doing so well just a few weeks ago. I wish I’d never discovered that photo. If only I were still blissfully ignorant. If only I didn’t know that Brian has lied to me all these years. If only I hadn’t become obsessed with three beautiful strangers. If only I hadn’t fallen for Joel. But how could I have not? I’m so vulnerable, so fucked up.

  I desperately want to see Joel. I want to run into his arms. I want him to tell me everything will be okay, like I know he would. But how could I even begin to tell him what’s going on without hurting him, without pulling him into the same boat I’m in. And it would only be worse for him. All these years, he’s believed that Ava was his.

  I hurt so much, I feel like I want to purge all my insides, all my thoughts, all my memories. I want to be a blank slate, a zombie. If I did recreational drugs, I’d need a hit so bad. I wonder if I could swallow a few of my pills… what would happen? A glass of wine, four pills or so. Would the pain dull? Would all this go away? If only for a night?

  My phone rings, the familiar Meghan Trainor tune lifts my spirits for a fraction of a second. A heavy weight fills my chest when I see Joel’s name.

  I can’t hide the pain in my voice when I answer, “Hello.”

  “Are you okay, Mischa?” he asks. “What’s go
ing on?”

  “Brian and I just had a huge fight,” I explain.

  Silence fills the line. My heart is thumping feverishly as I desperately wait for his reply.

  “Renee and I too… we had a huge fight. There must be something in the air tonight.”

  My heart fills with emotion. He’s the only person in the world I want to speak to right now, and here he is, on the other end of the line.

  “That’s why I called you,” he says. “I needed someone to talk to.”

  “I’m here,” I say softly.

  “I know… you always are.”

  I start sobbing again. I can’t help it — emotion is pouring out of me. I’m not usually the emotional type. I keep things bottled in — it’s actually what I do best. But once that bottle tips, it’s a mess.

  “Oh, Mischa… please don’t cry.”

  I bite my lip, a feeble attempt to control myself, but it’s no use.

  “I’m coming over,” he says.

  “No… you can’t,” I tell him. “Brian is here. He’ll see you.”

  “I don’t care,” he says. “I’m heading to my car. Give me your address right now. I’m in a white SUV.”

  I don’t know what I’m thinking, but I do as I’m told. My pulse races and my fingers shake as I tap in my coordinates. I pad over to the ensuite and stare at my reflection — I’m a mess. I don’t want Joel to see me like this. I wipe the mascara smears under my eyes and pour myself a glass of water. I dab on a touch of lipgloss and pull off my ratty t-shirt. I pick out a pretty blouse and some low heels. I keep my black leggings on. I grab my phone and head to the living room window where I can watch for him. Brian is finishing up in the kitchen.